


Love Potion No. 9

by iihappydaysii, MistressPandora



Category: Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Attempted Necromancy, Detective!Jamie Fraser, Detective!John Grey, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Mild Gore, Modern AU, Romantic Comedy, Witches, love potions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27125576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iihappydaysii/pseuds/iihappydaysii, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressPandora/pseuds/MistressPandora
Summary: When young queer boys begin to go missing under spooky circumstances, skeptical Detective John Grey is forced to team up with Jamie Fraser, a detective known for his use of unusual and paranormal methods to solve cases.
Relationships: Jamie Fraser/Lord John Grey, Tom Byrd/Fergus Fraser
Comments: 25
Kudos: 37
Collections: Lord John Trick-or-Twink Spooktacular 2020, Outlander Bingo Challenge





	Love Potion No. 9

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "Love Potion No. 9" by The Clovers (1959).
> 
> Fills MistressPandora's Outlander Bingo square: **Wildly Inappropriate Time to Have Sex ******
> 
> Written for the first annual Lord John Grey Reading Nook's Trick-or-Twink fic event.

**Sunday October 27, 1963.**

Tom Byrd wasn’t really a big fan of bonfires by the harbor. There were too many people, most of them jerks, virtually all of them drinking or smoking pot, or drinking _and_ smoking pot. Tom wasn’t there to get wasted. He was there to see Fergus Murray, the dark-haired townie who’d graduated last year and never left. That was fine by Tom. He’d had a crush on Fergus since last spring when the guy had winked at him in English class and taken Tom’s breath away.

Someone pressed a beer into Tom’s hand and he took a token sip of it, barely enough to taste the awful stuff. The little brown vial was a conspicuous knot in the pocket of his jeans. No one else would have noticed it, of course, but Tom could feel it against his hip, practically vibrating for how aware of it he was.

“It’ll only work if there’s something between ye, mind,” Madame Ruth had told him when she handed Tom the bottle. “Ye can pour it in yer… _someone’s_ drink. Ye’ll ken it if they want ye. Or take it yerself for some high-octane liquid courage to make the first move.” Tom had tried so hard not to wear his heart on his sleeve, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she could see right through his carefully worded explanation. She’d taken one look at him and cut him a deal on the potion that should have cost more than he’d made working all summer. “Be careful, aye?”

For at least the thirteenth time that night, Fergus caught his eye from a distance. Something electric and significant passed between them that left Tom ducking his head to hide a blush and struggling not to chug the nasty beer. _God, I hope no one saw that—oh shit, here he comes. Be cool._

“Hey, Byrd,” Fergus said in his typical relaxed, casual way that always made Tom feel so high-strung and nervous in comparison. “What’re you doing over here all by yourself?”

Tom glanced down at the untouched beer in his hand, the potion bottle burning a hole in his pocket. Meeting Fergus’ eyes again, he gave a shrug that he hoped looked nonchalant and worldly. “Eh, parties aren’t really my thing.” God, he sounded like an idiot. Tom dropped the facade and smiled up at Fergus. “Actually, I was sitting all the way over here hoping you would come over and ask why I was sitting all the way over here.”

A smile twitched Fergus’s lips, then he lowered his voice. “I could do without all these people myself. I was thinking of taking a drive. What do you say, Byrd?” Fergus stepped closer. “Want to get out of here?”

Fergus was just a little bit too close, holding his gaze just a little too long, and Tom’s stomach did an exciting little flip. It was so hard to keep from taking his hand, but he resisted. It wouldn’t do for the rumors about him to get any worse. Tom couldn’t hold back his smile anymore though. “A drive with you sounds great.” Fergus’s gaze flicked to Tom’s mouth, his own teeth biting into his lower lip. There was no doubt about it, there was something between them. 

Tom followed Fergus to his car parked a little ways from the rocky shore. He hung back a step and dug the bottle out of his pocket. The little gold-stamped number “9” glittered in the moonlight. No, he didn’t need a love potion to see that Fergus was into him. And Tom had already made up his mind to give Fergus the kiss of both of their lives as soon as they were parked somewhere secluded. He didn’t need the liquid courage either. Much better to let this happen on its own. 

Tom let the bottle drop into a pile of pebbles and jogged to catch up with Fergus.

**Wednesday October 30, 1963.**

Until recently, Detective John Grey never realized how many grown adults still believed in ghosts. Or perhaps the ghosts were just a convenient excuse for the citizens of Cape Ann to ignore what they found unsavory to acknowledge. Or perhaps, even more dreadfully, they saw so-called vengeful spirits as fair retribution. Knowing the other officers in this precinct as well as he did, Grey worried it was the latter. 

The captain had, however, summoned Grey to his office to speak on the heretofore ignored matter of the missing young men. At least, that would give Grey another opportunity to make his case that the recent disappearances were just that—disappearances—rather than runaways. Thus far, he’d been asked to simply accept _eleven_ runaways in a matter of two weeks. Many of them would have been considered good boys from good homes. It defied logic. These boys weren’t runaways, and neither had they been fucking spirited away by some ghoul, like half the damn town seemed to think. 

As the burn of frustration grew hotter in Grey’s chest, he took a deep breath to try to cool it. Then, he knocked on the captain’s door. 

“Come in,” Captain Quarry responded.

Grey pushed open the door and strode in. “Good morning, Captain. I was hoping to speak with you regarding…” The rest of his statement died in his throat when he realized Quarry was not alone.

Jamie Fraser—technically _Detective Fraser,_ though Grey was loath to think of him that way—looked over his shoulder at him from his sprawled position in one of the chairs opposite the captain’s desk. He wore one of his signature plain brown suits, no tie of course, and gave Grey a once-over before he resumed chomping on a wad of gum in his mouth. “Ye’re kidding,” Fraser said to Captain Quarry, deadpan.

Grey pressed his lips together. “For the first time in well… ever, I’m inclined to agree with Fraser.” He couldn’t think of any good reason for the so-called detective to be here. 

Quarry raised his eyebrow, a look Grey had come to know represented both amusement and judgement. “Is that any way for the two of you to thank me for finally giving you what you’ve both been bitching at me about for weeks now?” 

Grey blinked. “What are you saying?”

“You two want to investigate these runaways. Have at it.”

“ _I’ll_ investigate,” Grey said, glaring at Fraser. “And I’ll manage to do it without a ouija board.”

Fraser scoffed and shook his head. “Ouija boards. Never touch the things. Too unpredictable. Everyone kens reading the bones is much more reliable for something like this.” Grey honestly couldn’t tell if he was being serious. Fraser had a reputation for taking on cases in the realm of the weird and mysterious and leaning far too heavily into the occult theories to do so. He’d managed to close a handful of cold cases over the years but to say his methods were unorthodox would be an understatement. Fraser eyed Grey. “It wouldna kill ye to be a little open-minded, aye?”

“No, but it would kill me before one of your…” Grey searched for the word. “...poltergeists would.”

“You know you two can flirt on your own time,” Captain Quarry said. 

The words made Grey stiffen. It was only Quarry’s sense of humor, but it still made him nervous, uneasy. A joke too close to the truth. Not about Fraser, though—he’d rather blow one of the police horses. 

“Och, no, Captain. There isna a man on the force _less_ likely to spend anyone’s time flirting, even wi’ me.” Fraser hauled himself out of his seat and clapped Grey on the shoulder in an obnoxiously genial manner. “Ye’re driving. I’ll get the sandwiches.” And then he sauntered out of Quarry’s office without so much as a backwards glance.

“Am I being punished for something?” Grey sighed.

“Not punished, Grey” Quarry said, an easy grin stretching across his face. “But rather used for my own entertainment.”

* * *

“Of course, the fishermen traveling through Dogtown from the harbor said that Tammy Younger was queen of the witches because she cursed their ox teams if they didna pay her a toll. Brilliant business woman, if ye ask me.” Fraser took a bite of his sandwich, the butcher paper crinkling. “She’s supposedly still there, ken,” he said around a mouthful of turkey and cheese on white. He’d launched into a spectacularly elaborate treatise on the occult significance of Dogtown before they’d left the precinct’s parking lot. “Most of the other witches who lived and died there were widows from the War of 1812. And their dogs, which all went feral when their owners died. Ham?” Fraser offered Grey a paper-wrapped bundle, apparently a ham sandwich.

Grey ignored the petulant urge to slap the sandwich out of Fraser’s hand and instead replied, “No, thank you, and as fascinating as that story was, Fraser, how the hell is it relevant?”

“Did it never occur to ye that local legends often have a basis in fact?” Fraser took another bite and went on before Grey could dignify that question with a response. “There are common threads to stories like these, ken. People report seeing figures in the woods and the descriptions are all similar. Packs of wild dogs or wolves or coyotes. Strange, glowing lights where there shouldna be. It’s a confluence of paranormal activity, which is probably why so many kids go up there to prove how brave they are and to neck wi’ each other.” Fraser polished off his sandwich and crumbled up the paper into a tight wad that he shoved into his jacket pocket. Brushing errant crumbs from his lapel, he dug into another pocket to extricate a spiral-bound notepad. “Surely your… _conventional investigation_ told ye that much?”

“Quite. However, the only relevant part of that is that young people are coming up here. Clearly, someone is taking them and it has nothing to do with ghosts or goblins. Talking about the superstition distracts from the ultimate goal which should be to find the flesh and blood culprit.” Grey took a deep breath as he guided the car around a corner and over a leaf-strewn bridge. At least the changing colors of the leaves provided distraction from Fraser’s incessant babbling. It was hard to believe that the first time Grey had seen the man, he’d found him attractive. Then Fraser went and opened his mouth and ruined it. 

Out of nowhere, a crow darted towards the windshield of the car. Grey slammed on the brakes on instinct, throwing him and Fraser forward in their seats. The crow cracked the glass, then fell on the hood and rolled off onto the street. “Jesus fuck,” he spat. 

Fraser caught himself against the dash with a surprised, “Christ!” He made some sign with his left hand and muttered something in some rolling, odd language that Grey didn’t recognize. Didn’t Fraser speak Gaelic? He blew out a long breath and stared through the windshield into the early afternoon sunlight on the road. “Well that’s no’ a good sign.”

“I’m already in a car in the middle of nowhere with you,” Grey said. “Not sure how much worse it could get.” After steadying himself with a deep, solid breath, he removed his foot from the brake and continued driving. In the rear view mirror, Grey watched the corpse of the crow shrink to a single black dot and disappear. 

_Only a few more minutes,_ Grey thought. It had been years and years since he’d been to the beaches out here. But he’d grown up in Cape Ann. If he and Hector had spent many a Saturday night up here along these secluded roads, no one had to know about it. Especially not a superstitious, ham sandwich eating, pain-in-the-ass Scot. 

“Turn on the radio and I’ll sing,” Fraser said as the distant, rocky shoreline of the harbor came into view _._ “That’ll put the last thirty minutes into perspective for ye.” He flipped through his notepad, occasionally licking his thumb to turn the pages. “Did ye no’ find it strange that almost all of the missing persons are teenage boys? Young men and boys have been disappearing around here for years, none of them ever found again, not even their bodies. But never so many as in the last two weeks.” Fraser lowered the notepad and looked out the windshield again, squinting at the sky. “Ye ken tomorrow is Samhain, do ye no’? And a full moon besides.”

There had been reports of missing men over the years and Grey had looked into them when he’d first started to investigate on his own. What Fraser said was only partially correct. Some of the boys had rightly disappeared, but most had been found again after just a day or so and some of the stories appeared to have been made up entirely. “I’m going to park the car. We should walk the area. See what we can find.”

The last known location of one of the boys was a stretch of coastline that was less sandy beach and more rocky outcropping, smoothed by centuries of saltwater and sand weathering the surface. The late October air was damp and chilly, bringing the promise of a hard winter. At least Fraser had stopped prattling on as they cast about the rocks, searching for anything amiss or helpful. 

"That Murray boy was at a bonfire the night he disappeared?" Fraser toed the three-day-old remains of a campfire. "Do ye ken if anyone saw anything useful?"

“I don’t know much more than that. You know how these things get treated around here. Boys run away. They’ll come back any day now. All that shit.” John drew in a deep breath and looked out across the rocks to the crashing waves. “There was one boy. He called in, said he’d been at the bonfire that night. Unfortunately, that’s all I know. The officer who took the boy’s call said he didn’t even write down the caller’s name. I only know because I overheard him talking about it like it was some kind of joke. When I confronted him about it, he acted like he didn’t know what the big deal was, but that the boy might have been named Tom or Tim or Todd, so not much to go on.”

“Tom Byrd,” Fraser said, moving on from the charred rock, toward the trees, eyes glued to the ground in front of him. “His name is Tom Byrd, and he’s missing too. At least, I think he is.”

Grey froze, blinking, then shifted slowly to look at Fraser with a furrowed brow. “How the bloody hell do you know that?”

“Twelvetrees is a dick but he follows _some_ protocol,” Fraser said, meeting Grey’s eyes. “I heard him take the call too, found his notes in the bin. The kid was serious enough to give his real address.” He shrugged and looked away again. “I went to follow up wi’ him on my way to the precinct today, spoke to his sister. She confirmed that Tom was at the bonfire and came home shaken. Left yesterday wi’out a word and didna come home again. That’s why I was in Quarry’s office.”

Grey swallowed his petty frustration that Fraser had managed to take that lead farther than he had. But at least someone had more information, because what truly mattered was finding these boys and bringing them home, if possible. Though with each passing day that outcome grew less and less likely. It also explained why Captain Quarry had given into the pressure to investigate, at least somewhat. The only connection Grey had found between the boys was one of rumor and suspicion concerning their sexuality. A connection that John himself shared with them. A connection he was afraid to voice as it would make it even less likely that anyone would care to look and answer the question of what had happened to them. 

Lost in thought, Grey took a step forward, kicking his boot through the rocks. A glimmer caught his eye and he bent down to get a closer look. An amber glass vial with a cork stopper attached to a gold chain. He picked it up and let it dangle from his fingers. The vial was stamped with the number “9.”

“Find something?” Fraser asked, coming to his side. He squinted down at the little bottle. Something passed over his features, too fast for Grey to identify before it was gone. “Is there anything in it?”

Grey tilted the vial, examining it more closely and noticed that there was something in it and, in fact, it looked to be full. He popped the top off and carefully smelled it. He hissed as the scent burned his nose. “Smells like turpentine and God knows what else.” 

Fraser rummaged around in his pocket and pulled out the wad of white butcher paper. He smoothed out a corner and, taking the vial from Grey, poured out a tiny drop on the paper. It was pitch black, shimmering in the late afternoon sun and oozing and quivering like quicksilver. Tilting the paper to let the stuff slip to the ground, it fizzed and evaporated in a thin wisp of steam when it hit a mossy stone. “Now, if I had to guess, I’d say that’s probably a clue.” 

“Careful with that.” Grey took the vial back from Fraser and closed it up. “We need to figure out where this came from. It doesn’t look like something you could walk into a department store and buy. I mean, have you ever seen anything like it before?” 

It took Fraser a second too long to answer. “Aye, I have. But ye willna like it.”

Grey steadied himself for whatever nonsense Fraser was about to spew. “What? Did you see it in a crystal ball?” 

“Weel, no. No’ exactly. There’s a wise woman, lives in Rockport. She’s a—a _seer_ , of sorts. She’s worked wi’ me as a consultant on a few cases before. Has a wee shop in town where she does palm readings for tourists and sells some crystals and incense an’ the like in the front of the store. But in the back, she has the real deal.” Fraser pointed at the vial in Grey’s hand. “And _that_ is from the back stock.”

 _Real deal, my arse._ Grey groaned in annoyance, but a sudden, cold wind stifled it as a chill shivered across his skin. “We truly have to go to this damn place, don’t we?” he muttered. 

“I said ye wouldna like it.” Fraser held up his hands in mock surrender. “But if ye dinna want to, I can go speak wi’ Geillis alone. That’s fine.”

Grey pondered this for a moment, wanting to take Jamie up on his offer. Instead, he inexplicably found himself stepping forward, clapping Fraser on the shoulder and posturing with a cheeky smirk. “It would be remiss of me to let you go alone. You may end up trading your badge for a couple of magic beans.” 

* * *

Grey parked parallel next to a weathered, wooden shack with a hand-painted sign identifying it as _Madame Ruth’s_. Heavy purple drapes covered the narrow windows, but the little sign on the door said _Open_ and Fraser pushed the door open with a chime from the bell above it. To Grey’s utter dismay, the little storefront was exactly what he’d expected. A few shelves with baskets of assorted colored stones of questionable authenticity, glass jars of incense sticks—which stank directly to high heaven—and a small selection of burners for said sticks. Candles, bottles of oils, bundles of herbs. And in the darkest corner of the small room, a round table, covered with a heavy black cloth and, wonder of wonders, a goddamn crystal ball in the center.

Grey picked up a pink crystal and squinted at his marred reflection in it before setting it back down. “You’d think _Madame Ruth_ might feel a little remorse for scamming gullible people out of their hard-earned money.”

“Och! I dinna _scam_ anyone,” came a woman’s voice with a Scottish accent even thicker than Fraser’s. The woman herself emerged from behind a purple curtain hung in a doorway in the back of the shop. She was rather petite, red hair falling in wild waves down her back, but otherwise… ordinary. “I offer information and tools to help focus intent. Besides, my prices are better than what ye’ll find in Boston, I reckon.” She eyed Fraser and put her hands on her hips. “Now, dinna take this the wrong way, Jamie dear, but I didna expect to see ye back so soon.”

“Nay, Geillis, I’m here on business. This is Detective Grey, my… partner.” Fraser had to force that last word out and he barely gestured at Grey by way of introduction. “Ruth is a stage name of sorts,” he explained to Grey without looking directly at him. “This is Geillis Duncan.”

“A pleasure, Miss Duncan,” Grey replied reflexively, despite their meeting being far from anything pleasurable. Besides, he needed to maintain a certain decorum despite his personal opinions, if he wanted this woman’s help. “We actually happened upon one of your products in the course of our investigation, and we were wondering if you might remember who you may have sold it to.” Grey carefully removed the vial from his coat pocket, and showed it to her through the evidence bag he’d used to collect it. 

Miss Duncan’s eyes flashed from the vial to Fraser. “That’s the number nine, then?”

“Aye, tis,” Fraser answered. “Was it one of yer regulars?”

“Weel, I dinna ken,” Miss Duncan answered. “I’ve sold several of the number nine in the past few weeks. Most of them were no’ regulars. And, Jamie, ye ken I dinna ask for names in the backroom. There’s no’ so many men congenial as yerself as to introduce themselves before they ask me for a love potion.”

Grey froze. It took every ounce of restraint he had not to bark out a laugh. He wasn’t sure why he was surprised. Ever since he’d met the man, he’d been going on and on about this nonsense. Taking the credit for solving cases with his mediums and psychics and conveniently ignoring the real police work that actually brought justice. Still. A love potion? For God’s sake. “If I knew you were that desperate, Fraser. My mother has a sister who’s into numerology. She’s twice your age, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

Fraser slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers and gave Grey a level look. “I do like older women. My first wife was older than me. But that’s no’ really the point, is it, Grey?” He turned back to Geillis and his posture softened. “Could ye describe the people ye sold them to? Maybe just in the past week to start?”

Geillis blew out a contemplative breath and her bangs fluttered over her eyes. She grimaced. “It’s no’ much help I think, but they were young. Seventeen? Twenty at the oldest. I haven’t the faintest idea where they learned to ask for the stuff.”

It wasn’t a smoking gun, but at least it fit their demographic, making the vial less likely to be a red herring. 

“Excuse my ignorance on the subject, but what exactly is a love potion meant to do?” Grey inquired. As much as he didn’t believe that potion did anything magical, maybe the motivation would say something about what happened to these men. 

Miss Duncan looked at Grey as if he were particularly dense. “Exactly as it sounds. Call it an aphrodisiac, if ye’d like. The number nine is my own proprietary blend. It increases attraction and desire, lowers some inhibitions.” She paused and crossed her arms over her narrow chest. “Dinna look at me like that, Detective. It isna a drug. Ye ken the law of conservation of mass, aye? Nothing can be created nor destroyed? Weel, magic works along the same principle. The potion can only enhance what is already there. The number nine is particularly useful for… greasing the skids, if ye catch my drift."

Grey considered this for a moment, then did his best to swallow down his own distaste at the idea of a love potion, whether it worked or not. And he imagined it was as effective as the power of the suggestion. He removed a photograph of one of the missing young men from his case file and held it out to Geillis Duncan. “Do you recognize him? Was he one of the boys who purchased the potion?” 

Miss Duncan cast a quick glance at Fraser, who gave her an encouraging nod, and she studied the photograph. Her furrowed brow gave way to a flash of recognition and she nodded. “Aye, I think so. Two weeks ago, maybe? Skittish wee thing, poor dear. Bright aura though; good lad, I’d reckon.” She gave Fraser a wistful smile, who returned it in a marginally more reserved form. “Young love, aye?”

In the folder, Grey kept photographs of all the missing young men. He removed them and spread them out in front of the baskets of crystals. “Do you recognize _all_ of them?” Grey asked.

With another glance—and resulting arched eyebrow and a nod from Fraser—Miss Duncan perused the scattered photographs and touched seven of them. “Just these,” she said. “I couldna tell ye exactly when I saw them, but I’d say… Oh, in the last month or so.” She looked from Grey to Fraser and back again, suddenly wide-eyed with concern. “Why? They havenae gotten themselves into trouble, have they?”

“They’re missing,” Fraser interjected. “Have ye seen any of them since?”

“Nay,” Miss Duncan said. “Nor before.” She looked up at Fraser—very _up_ , the giant man towered over her. “If ye have any of their personal effects, I might be able to work a little something to help.”

 _Oh, you cannot be bloody-fucking-serious._ “Thanks for the offer, but my nephew has a Magic 8-ball. I’ll consult that instead.” Grey turned to Fraser. “We should be going now.” 

Fraser narrowed his eyes at Grey, looking most unamused, before turning a kind expression to Miss Duncan. “Thank ye, Geillis, no’ yet. I’ll let ye know if I need yer consultation services, aye?”

“Alright then,” she answered. “Be careful, Jamie, dear.”

As soon as they were outside and back in the car, Fraser fixed Grey with a displeased glare. “That was verra rude.”

“Perhaps it was, but I’ve quite reached my limit for bullshit today. There are real people missing. Every second counts so pardon me if I don’t want to waste my time chasing ghosts.” Grey tried to repress the hot anger in his chest, but it grew more difficult by the second. He’d let Fraser and his damn psychics have their way before, and the result was two wasted days and parents who would never see their little girl again. Grey would be damned if he ever let something like that happen again. 

Fraser loosed an exasperated groan. “Christ, ye’re arrogant. Did it never occur to ye that maybe—on occasion—things are no’ always as they seem to yer own judgemental eyes? Have ye never chased a dead-end lead for nay reason other than yer gut said it was the thing to do?”

“There’s a difference,” Grey said, not looking at Fraser, but out into the low-lying mist hovering over the street. “And you bloody well know it.”

Fraser muttered something under his breath and shook his head. “One of these days, Grey, something is going to land in your lap that defies explanation. And I hope to God I’m there to see it.”

“Do you hear how unhinged you manage to sound sometimes, Fraser? For God’s sake.” Grey shook his head as he peered through the slightly fogged windshield. They were driving back out to the shore, hoping to find something new, and rain had started to drizzle from the gray sky. The wipers chopped methodically across the glass. “I’m loathe to say it, but I know you’re a reasonably intelligent man. I can’t understand why you choose to believe in all this mumbo jumbo.” 

“I dinna expect ye to understand it. I’ll bet ye sleep wi’ a copy of Gross’ _Criminal Investigation Handbook_ under yer pillow,” Fraser spat back. “Have ye honestly never taken a single thing on faith? I swear ye’d witness the Second Coming firsthand and ask Christ for his credentials.”

This almost made Grey laugh, which only made him angrier. “I believe things that can be seen or that can be proven. If you or anyone else for that matter can show me actual proof of the supernatural, something that can’t be explained away, then I’ll be happy to believe it. Since man first had a thought, blind faith has been used to control and to… to shame.” The last word was harder than the others to force from his throat. 

Fraser turned in his seat and gave Grey a wide-eyed glare. "Oh, shame, is it? Like what ye're trying to do right now?" He shook his head. "I'm no' asking ye take anything on _blind faith_. I'm just suggesting ye open yer mind—and yer own damn eyes—once in a while. If something gets results, even if ye dinna understand it, ye count yer blessings and ye take the win."

“Results. What bloody results?” Grey scoffed, turning up the wipers as the rain fell in earnest now. “There are a dozen young men missing and we’re the only two people who seem to care. I know why I care, haven’t a bloody clue why you do, but here we both are.”

"Aye. Results." Fraser counted off his points on his fingers. "Seven out of eight cold cases closed in Scotland before I came here. Ten more here. Grieving families reunited or, at the very least, with a body to give a decent burial. Not to mention my active investigations. All with the help of this 'bullshit mumbo jumbo.' And a conviction rate good enough to convince Quarry to let me keep using my _unconventional methods_ provided I make it look good on my reports."

“I’ve looked at your reports and I’m far from convinced that it’s any more than adequate police work. I see the way you preen whenever you speak to reporters. You wouldn’t get half the attention you get if it weren’t for pretending you solved a case by speaking to someone’s dead cat. That and the fact that you look more like a goddamn movie star than a cop.” The now-rushing rain lifted the car from the street. They were going too fast and Grey was too angry and distracted to keep the car from sliding off the side of the road. He slammed on the brakes, but they still ended up between two trees, tires spinning uselessly in sticky mud. 

Fraser let out a mighty curse, followed by a terrible crack as his thick head collided with the passenger window. “Bloody fucking hell, Grey!” He yanked on the handle to shove open his door with more force than was strictly necessary, but it stuck in the mud with a gap no more than three inches wide. Swearing and slamming the door shut again, he turned back to Grey. “Aye, weel, all yer raving got us stuck here while our trail gets colder. Do ye need _proof_ or will ye believe me that ye got us dug in?”

“Oh, just shut the hell up!” Grey barked, then smacked the steering wheel with his hand. Lightning crashed outside, but he’d rather get struck by it than stay stuck in this car with Jamie Fraser. He tried to open the door but it was pinned by another tree. Grey shook it madly before spitting, “Goddammit.” 

Fraser pinched the bridge of his nose. “I shouldna let ye turn down Geillis’s offer to help. We might at least then have had a better strategy than wandering the beach hoping to trip over a clue.” He closed his eyes and rested his head back against the headrest, far too low for him. “It’s connected to the potion somehow, I ken it,” he muttered. “But _how_.”

“So someone is following the people who purchase potions? Or maybe _Madame Ruth_ knows more than she’s letting on. You’re not suspicious at all how she’s the one person we know met almost every single one of our victims? If anyone’s a suspect…” 

“There’s a fine line between _skeptical_ and _paranoid_ , and ye’re flirting wi’ it.” A flash of blue-white lightning threw Fraser’s face into stark relief, his red hair suddenly a blazing inferno and then dark again as thunder crashed around the stranded car. " _Miss Duncan_ has worked as a consultant for me for years. Her potions, charms, talismans, all work as she says they do. And why in the hell would she hunt down her customers, hmm? Bad for business. And believe me, she _is_ a businesswoman.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen someone use their workplace as a means to find victims. The reason her spells or what-have-you work is simply because people want them to or their effects are vague. Take that so-called love potion. The way Geillis described the damn thing it’s a glorified glass of wine.” 

“Intent matters, aye! But it’s no’—” Fraser cut himself off with an exasperated groan. “Drink it then. Ye only believe what ye see wi’ yer own eyes. Drink the damn thing and see for yerself.”

“I’m not drinking the evidence!”

“Oh, for the love of—here.” Fraser stretched across the bench seat and dug into his right pocket, leaning far too close for Grey’s liking. He straightened again and dropped a little amber vial into Grey’s palm. Another flash of lightning revealed a stamped number “9.” “No’ evidence. Purchased fair and square, on my own time, wi’ my own cash, for my own use. And as ye can see, I’m no’ missing.” Fraser stared him down. “So? Drink it and prove me wrong.”

Grey was seething now, the weather outside matching the flashing rage he felt as he stared at this infuriating man. He couldn’t believe he was actually reaching out and taking the vial from Fraser’s hand. He had half a mind to dump the stuff out onto the floorboard, but the other half of his mind had a point to prove. 

With his thumb, he popped off the cork and tossed back the love potion. Grey gagged at the horrid taste, barely managing to get it down. He wiped his mouth, looking down at the steering wheel. Why had he done this? How could he ever prove it didn’t work? But at least, Fraser would never see him fall in love with anyone. He’d never end up with a wife that arse could point to and say, “Remember that potion you took six years ago? It’s definitely responsible for this.” 

Grey turned towards Jamie, planning to chew him out for goading him into drinking that nasty shit. But when he looked at the man, the fury was still there, strong as ever, but there was something else too. Something that lit inside Grey. A primal electricity. Thoughts melted like candle wax, and there was suddenly nothing left but a masculine brow, a strong, stubbled jaw and blue eyes as wild as a cat. 

“ _Oh, God.”_ John gripped Jamie’s shirt in his fist and pulled their mouths together hard.

For a long moment, Fraser was still and passive as a statue. Then he sucked in a breath through his nose and _kissed him back_. Jamie kissed him back and all reason and sense, the sum total of the professionalism in the front seat of this squad car evaporated. Gone up in a puff of red smoke until Fraser shoved Grey back against the driver’s seat, following him, hovering inches from his face. “I told ye so.”

Grey shut him up with a kiss and tore down on his shirt, popping the buttons one after the other. He tugged on Fraser’s bottom lip with his as he pulled back. “Are you going to gloat or are you going to fuck me?”

“Both,” Jamie gasped, yanking roughly on Grey’s tie until the knot came loose. A mad scrabble of hands and abandoned buttons, shoving and pulling and tossing clothes into the backseat. Wet mouths taking and giving and demanding more. Fraser’s teeth in Grey’s bare shoulder. Skin on hot skin, glorious, hedonistic connection. Rain ran off the windshield in sheets, and somewhere on the floorboard, the tiny sound of breaking glass. 

Jamie’s hands were all over Grey’s body, never staying in one place for long. Chest, thigh, prick, thigh again, strong fingers digging into the flesh of his arse. “How?” he said against John’s mouth, punctuating his words with his teeth scraping over his bottom lip. “How did ye want it?”

Grey rocked his body up into Jamie’s, letting desire ripple through him. Hot. Delirious. Wanting. He kissed Jamie full and deep, falling into it like the deep end of a swimming pool. “Take me, Fraser,” he whispered. “However the fuck you want to.” 

Fraser took a firm grip on Grey’s hips and dragged him closer, jabbing him with the blunt head of his hard cock. The grin Jamie gave him, looming over Grey, was positively feral. And smug, the bastard. “I could’ve told ye that too.” Jamie kissed him again, crushing him against the bench seat, the cheap leather sticking to John’s sweaty back. He worked a hand between them, some interesting, slippery movement for a moment—that Grey barely registered because Fraser’s tongue in his mouth was damned distracting—and then the slow, careful press as Jamie filled him.

All Grey could do. All he wanted to do was give in to it. Just let the fullness swallow him up, drown him. _God,_ it felt incredible. The two of them. Together. Taking from each other and giving back. The taste of Fraser’s mouth as they both clamored for more skin, more touch. Just more and more and more. That fever of want built and burnt inside him hot as lava, as destructive too, until Grey was nearly sobbing, crying out to every god he didn’t believe in, and spilling all over himself. 

Jamie got an arm under Grey’s back, held him in a crushing embrace, stifling his own groan of ecstasy against John’s neck. He pressed kiss after kiss to all the skin he could reach, pausing an inch over Grey’s lips. Fraser stared down at him, his wild eyes and twitching leg muscles all that moved. 

Grey tried catching his breath as he felt the passion that had gripped him start to ebb. _Dear God in heaven._ What had he done? He’d just let Jamie Fraser fuck him. For God’s sake, Fraser was still inside him and even when the man pulled out his seed would still be inside him. He waited to get angry again, for the regret to set in, and yet… it wasn’t coming. Not yet at least. For now, Grey was content to be here, breathing, beneath this man. 

* * *

**Thursday October 31, 1963.**

A bone-deep cold woke Jamie Fraser, alerting him to a stiff neck. He blinked, early morning sunlight filtering through the trees setting off a raging headache. Wincing, he pressed his palms against his throbbing eyelids, begging his eyeballs not to actually fall out of his skull. But the cold was insistent, his bare toes numb and his cotton boxers doing absolutely nothing to keep his balls warm. With regret, he opened his eyes.

He was alone in the back of Grey’s squad car, dressed only in his shorts and undershirt which he had reluctantly put back on after… “Oh, _fuck_ ,” he groaned into the empty car, his breath puffing out in a cloud in front of his face. 

Jamie sat bolt upright, his aching head protesting every bit of the altitude change. He and Grey had argued. Christ, what an endless, nonsensical row it had been, too. And John had taken that stupid potion—which Jamie never should have bought in the first fucking place, that ship had long ago sailed away with Claire on board—because he had goaded him into it. No matter what Geillis had said about it, Grey likely thought that he’d intentionally drugged him just to have his way with him. He was probably on his way to Quarry right now to report him. How the hell Grey would word it was beyond Jamie’s sore brain, but Claire’s divorce attorney would sure have a field day with it when he caught wind that Jamie had lost his badge over… whatever the hell this was.

The zipper of Jamie’s trousers had been warped in the frenzy, but his belt was still intact, so he maneuvered his way back into them, bumping his head on the roof of the car. He swore and reached for his shoes from the pile of discarded clothing in the floorboard. There were two pairs of shoes on the floor. 

Jamie froze, forcing himself to stop his rambling thoughts and pay attention to his surroundings. Grey’s shoes were still here. As was his jacket, trousers, and tie. If he’d hoofed it to the road to make his way back to the station, he wouldn’t have done it barefoot and in his underwear. They had opened the cage and slid into the back to wait out the storm, eventually falling asleep together, if not precisely in each other’s arms. Now though, the left-rear door was open. The rear doors of the squad car didn’t open from the inside. They didn’t have handles.

A sickening, dark dread knotted in Jamie’s guts. “Oh. _Shit_. Motherfucking goddamn shit!” Only three buttons had survived on his shirt so he skipped it, sliding his arms into his shoulder holster over his t-shirt and covering it with his jacket. On impulse, he reached for the radio to call for help, but stopped. What the fuck would he say? “We wrecked the car last night and didn’t follow the reporting protocol because we were too busy having a mad shag under the influence?” Dear God, they’d be lucky if all they got was sacked. No, he couldn’t so much as show his face at the precinct until he’d found Grey and cracked the case.

Digging the car out of the mud had been a bitch of a job and Jamie’s shirt was stuck to his sweaty back, hair a frazzled mess when he bolted into Geillis’ shop, startling the wee woman. “I need that help now.”

“Did ye come alone?” Geillis replied flatly, raising one of her eyebrows. “Because I’m no’ in the mood for another round of yer wee partner’s accusations.” 

“Aye,” Fraser replied, pulling Grey’s tie out of his jacket pocket. “He’s who I need yer help finding.” He swallowed hard around the lump of guilt in his throat and fought to keep the desperate worry off his face.

Geillis made a noise in her throat and stepped out from behind a rustic table filled with mystical objects, some of which even Jamie couldn’t name. “Do ye truly want to find him? Wandering lost for a while might do the man some good, aye?”

After a pause, Jamie nodded. “It’s my fault. I think it’s to do with the number nine.”

“What do ye mean? ‘Tis the same brew I’ve been using for years. I’ve never had a problem wi’ it before.” Geillis tucked a hand into the pocket of dress. “Hold on, are ye saying he _took_ the number nine?” A smirk twitched at her lips then fell away. 

Jamie stopped short of grinding his teeth, feeling conspicuously as if he were caught in the middle of a walk of shame. “Aye, he did.”

Geillis stumbled back, kicking up her left boot then letting it thud on the hardwood. “Weel, Christ. Why the hell did he do that?” 

Impatient anger flared in Jamie’s chest. He liked Geillis, but he _really_ didn’t want to get into this with her, especially now. “It’s a long bloody story, and I dinna have the time to tell it. But it didna work precisely the way ye said it would, and Grey is running out of time. Now, can ye help me or no’?”

Geillis closed the distance between them, swiping the tie from Jamie’s hand. “Alright. Dinna get yer knickers in a knot. I’ll find yer wee detective, but the short notice will cost ye extra.”

* * *

John Grey woke up with what felt like the worst hangover he’d had in his life. Groaning, he rubbed his temples with his thumbs and waited for his vision to clear. It barely improved, however. Just a thin slice of light leaked through a crack above him. He went to stand and found he couldn’t. Strong ropes tethered him in place. Grey struggled, yanking his arms apart as hard as he could, but the restraints didn’t budge. 

“Fuck,” Grey spat, cold panic freezing his insides. 

"Shh!" a voice hissed. "He gets angry when you yell." The voice belonged to a shadowy figure a few feet away from where Grey was tied. A young man by the sound of his voice and what Grey could make out of his shape. "You were out a long time. Are you okay?"

“‘Okay’ may not be the precise phrasing I’d use,” Grey said. “Do you have any idea where we are?”

"A cellar, I think. In Dogtown. I was awake when he threw me down here, but I didn't see the number. Fat lot of good it would've done us anyway." The young man fell into a bitter silence.

So Grey had been right. There weren’t ghosts involved, as the rumors had suggested… though there was something about that damn potion. Not only had it managed to land him here, but it had led him to doing the most foolish and unprofessional thing he had ever done. But he’d rather not think of that at the moment. “What’s your name?” Grey asked.

"Tom," he answered. "Tom Byrd. You?"

“John Grey,” he replied. “Detective John Grey.” 

Byrd laughed, a cynical sound for a kid so young, but he made no comment. 

So this was one of the victims, and he was alive, which meant that some of the other victims could also be alive. That was a good thing. A very good thing. Unfortunately, Grey wasn’t in any kind of position to help. He also had no idea where the hell Fraser was. Was he trapped down in one of these Dogtown cellars? Was he looking for them? Was he… dead? 

“Do you know him?” Grey asked. “The man who took you? Us, I reckon.”

Byrd scoffed. "He's not a man. Well, not anymore I guess. And all I know is, he can move the trees and rocks with his mind, he talks to himself— _a lot_ —and he's the same creep who took Fergus. When I ran away like a damn chicken." The youth's voice was strained with an intense hurt and inward anger. "Maybe if I hadn't run off, Fergus could have gotten away too. But I did, and he didn't, and I don't even know if he's still alive. Idiot," he muttered.

Grey bristled. He didn’t know if Byrd’s account was entirely accurate, but he also didn’t believe the boy to be lying. Perhaps he just hadn’t seen what he thought he had… though there _had_ been that potion. But Geillis Duncan’s potion was likely some kind of drug, not some kind of magic. Regardless, the only thing that mattered now was getting out of here. “It’s not your fault. What’s more likely is that you both would’ve been taken then, and no one would have any idea what had happened. But you did make it, and you did try to reach out for help. I’m just sorry it was so hard to find anyone to listen.”

"Hard? Impossible you mean. It's not like it was the first time someone wrote me off. Might be the last though, if what he said was the truth."

 _Fraser listened,_ Grey thought, but kept it to himself. “What did he say?”

Byrd blew out a low whistle. "Wild stuff. Something about the full moon and Samhain—whatever the hell that is, though I gather it's soon. Bathing in blood, final sacrifice… I assume that's me. Well, us, maybe." He trailed off and fell silent for a moment before continuing. "I don't know, it was like he was talking _to_ someone. He kept saying things like 'I shall not fail you, Mother,' and 'Soon you shall rise again.' Like I said, wild."

“Dear God.” Grey shook his head. It was one thing to deal with a kidnapper and possible murderer, and quite another to be dealing with one who was so very clearly out of his damn mind. “We have to find a way to get out of here.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, Detective, but I’ve only got about three feet of leash over here,” Byrd said. “I guess you were still out of it when he tossed you in here, but he’s got a boulder rolled over the door up there. I was awake when he grabbed me.”

Grey’s chest tightened. The thought of a boulder looming over them, pinning them in, made it even harder to breathe. But, at least, there was some light in this cellar so the boulder couldn’t be covering the entire way out. Did that matter, though. Did it—

Above them, there was a horrible creaking interrupted by the groan of pressure being lifted from very old wood. There was a thunderous thud that shook the ground beneath and around them, then moonlight flooded the space. 

A man loomed above them, little more than a dark shadow.

“Who the fuck are you?” Grey spat. “What the fuck is going on?”

The man ignored him. He was muttering, but it was clearly not a reply. Then something happened that Grey had no damned clue how to explain. Tom jerked towards Grey, shouting as he was dragged up and out of the cellar. 

“What the fuck?” Grey’s voice cracked with the shout. “Let him go. You fucking psychopath!” Grey thrashed against the restraints again, even though he knew it was useless.

Then, something invisible tightened around Grey’s wrists and pulled.

* * *

The only thing keeping Jamie from driving seventy in a thirty-five was the knowledge that he couldn't do a thing for Grey if he wrapped the car around a tree. The winding back roads were still treacherously wet and the trek out of Rockport was infuriatingly slow. It had taken Geillis most of the day to work her spell to locate John Grey and then narrow it down enough to be useful. 

“He’s no’ alone,” Geillis had said at the end of it. Her voice had been shaky and her eyes troubled. “There’s something out there. Something verra old and verra dark. Go canny, aye?”

Jamie glanced at his wristwatch. Sunset was in less than two hours and the overcast sky rendered the drive to Dogtown dreary and dark. 

The headlights landed on a huge tree fallen across the road, and Jamie stomped on the brake, skidding to a reluctant halt inches away from the thing. He let loose every curse he could think of in a string of creative profanity as he turned off the engine and got out of the car. Of course, Grey kept his squad car properly stocked, and Jamie found a torch and extra magazines for his service pistol in the trunk. Pocketing these, he climbed over the fallen tree and made his way into Dogtown on foot. Jamie passed a boulder stamped with BE CLEAN in huge block letters. Geillis had only been able to tell him that Grey was somewhere in the Common, so all he could do was keep his eyes open and hope whoever—or whatever—had Grey didn’t sneak up on Jamie first.

As full dark fell, he found several smaller stones stamped with numbers—cellar markers. Jamie shined his torch down into these, but found nothing, no sign of life or foul play. He was nearly desperate enough to start shouting and give away his position, when he caught a lucky break. The hazy beam of his torch landed on cellar stone twenty-three, illuminating a dark smear. Blood. 

Drawing his pistol, Fraser approached the cellar and shined the torch inside. It was empty, but bore the odor of relatively fresh urine. _Someone_ had been down there recently, likely for at least several hours, if not days. 

Jamie swore again and looked around for signs of a trail. A narrow path of crushed leaf litter and disturbed earth led to another boulder, this one stamped with the words HELP MOTHER and covered in brownish-red handprints. A chill skittered down Jamie’s spine. He was _definitely_ on the right track.

The wind shifted and carried with it the scent of woodsmoke. A fire glowed in the forest beyond the boulder. Jamie switched off his torch and approached the light cautiously, pistol at the ready. He rounded the boulder and found himself on the edge of a clearing. There was a kind of stone altar on one side of it, laid with various blades and bottles and an enormous cauldron. Near that was what looked like the makings of a funeral pyre with torches burning around it. And on the far side of the clearing stood three tidy rows of trees as big around as Jamie’s thigh with their tops cut off from about eight feet. Securely bound to each of these was one of their missing boys. He counted all twelve, gagged roughly with rags. 

Situated on the edge of the clearing between the altar and the young men, was a thirteenth tree, this one intact. John Grey was tied to this one. 

Jamie indulged in a brief flutter of relief to see him alive and still looking surly. Understandable, given the circumstances. What Jamie could not see was whoever had set this up.

Refocusing, Jamie crept through the forest, skirting around the clearing and keeping to the shadows until he was behind Grey. Another glance around to be sure the perp was still absent, and Jamie left the refuge of the trees to come up behind Grey.

“Grey,” Jamie whispered. “Are ye hurt?”

“Fraser. Christ, _Jamie_.” Grey’s words came out in tired gasps of air. “How did you find… it doesn’t matter. We have to get these boys out of here. The man who did this… he’s… he’s insane.”

Jamie flipped open his knife and started sawing at the ropes binding Grey's arms to the tree. "Aye, I'm inclined to agree wi' ye. I havenae seen him yet. Did he say what he intends to do wi' ye? He's got it set up like a blood sacrifice. Shite, I've almost got—"

He was cut off by an intensely strong, incorporeal pressure around his throat. It dragged Jamie away, his knife and gun both falling uselessly to the dirt. "Help mother!" an enraged male voice shrieked. 

The pressure slammed Jamie to the ground, knocking the wind from his lungs. He looked up, gasping like a landed fish. The man staring down at him _was_ mad, everything about him crackling with an indefinable, otherworldly power. "Mother wants you first," he said. And then something lifted Fraser, dragging him back to the clearing.

“Jamie!” Grey shouted as he managed to rip through what was left of the ropes. He tried to lunge forward, but as soon as he moved, the same invisible force threw him back. 

"Two hundred years," the man rambled. "Two hundred years Mother has been trapped in this forest, _her_ forest.”

Jamie kicked and fought the force dragging him but couldn't get purchase. It lifted him up and dropped him on the altar next to the cauldron, the impact jarring his hips and shoulder blades. He opened his mouth to swear, but the man's hand came down over his mouth and nose. 

“She who was paid tribute by travelers to pass over her land has endured these… _trespassers_ for too long." The man spat the words toward the rows of bound young men. 

That invisible force crushed Jamie to the altar, pinning his legs and stealing his leverage. He could still move his arms though, and he grappled with the man. Jamie fought him, tried to wrench the hand away from his mouth, to breathe, but it was useless. He had wrestled with plenty of berserk perps before, men as big as he was, out of their minds on drugs. This man though, he was stronger than any of them, unnaturally so. There was definitely more at play here.

The man loomed over him, sneering, holding him easily. "Mother must have your blood to walk again." He picked up a dagger from the altar and held it to Jamie's throat. 

A cloud of smoke and mist gathered above Jamie, coming together in a form that was nearly solid. It took the shape of a body, a featureless face emerging from it. Black eyes stared down at him, an inhuman mouth like a gaping maw let out a horrible wail that could shatter glass. The sight of it filled Jamie with an icy terror, the evilness of the form left him feeling sludgy down to his bones. It stole the fight from him and for a moment he froze. He _froze_ like a fucking coward. All of the prayers and defensive incantations he knew fell out of his mind, useless.

The man holding Jamie shuddered and let out a deranged laugh of pleasure. "Yes," he said. "Mother likes you. Your blood will make her strong again."

His lungs burnt with the need to breathe. The man finally moved his hand and Jamie sucked in a breath of air, nearly choking on the reek of rotting death. Whether it came from the ghastly _Mother_ or the deranged _son_ , Fraser couldn't tell. 

Jamie hissed as the dagger started a slow press into his flesh. That misty form loomed closer, its horribly wide mouth coming down to lap up the hot trickle of his blood with an icy, slimy tongue. He shuddered and gritted his teeth, revulsion and bile rising in his throat. 

"They come here, drunk on a magic they don't understand, fornicating at night—ha! At night! When my power is strongest. I was the one who told them about the witch’s potion. The fools. Well, now they'll pay the ultimate tribute."

That horrible thing was growing more solid over him and Jamie thrashed, desperate to escape. The man shoved his shoulders down against the altar, sweat dripping from his brow. If Jamie could just tire him out, maybe Grey would have a chance to get the boys to safety. 

_Blessed Michael, defend us_.

From the edge of his vision, Jamie saw Grey stand, the shine of a gun in his hand. The sharp crack of a bullet rang out and there was an explosion of red. The man’s eyes went wide, fingers gripping down on Jamie. Then the man… his body, at least… slumped forward onto him. 

Above Jamie, the form started to writhe, bits of it coming into focus, then dissipating. Whatever it was appeared to be struggling to maintain its grip on this world without a living tether. There was a deafening wail like a pained wind and the apparition exploded like a firework into points of lights before disappearing entirely, leaving a completely calm silence behind. 

Grey rushed forward and shoved the dead weight off Jamie. 

“Christ,” Grey said, gasping for breath. “Christ… what was…” Grey’s hand fell on Jamie’s cheek and his lips tipped up into a crooked smile. “Are you alright?” 

The force holding Jamie to the altar had vanished, and he rolled to his side and spat out a mouthful of the dead perp’s blood, manfully suppressing a gag. He collapsed onto his back again with a groan. “Aye, I’ll bide, so long as ye canna see my jugular.” Relief washed over Jamie in a wave to look up into Grey’s eyes and he couldn’t help but smile back, hoping he didn’t have bad guy brains in his teeth. Grey was smiling at him and touching him and the combination filled Jamie with a warm happiness he hadn’t anticipated, even after the incident with the potion. “Nice shot. Are the lads alright?”

Grey glanced over his shoulder, then back at Jamie. “They’re thirsty and hungry and scared, but I’m sure they will be. Thanks to you. I don’t know how the hell you found us, but thank God you did.” 

"Och, nay but a wee bit of bullshit," Jamie said, rolling off the altar with a groan. "Let's get them out of here and call it in. Then I can show you how to put this on a report."

* * *

Grey had managed to shove all his endless questions about what the fuck had just happened into a corner of his mind so he’d be able to do what he needed to as a detective. With Fraser’s help, the paperwork had been filled out, leaving out references to murderous apparitions and magic potions and the true reason the boys had been at Dogtown. George Everett—the ID in the dead man’s pocket had answered that question—was a troubled man obsessed with superstition who had delusions about resurrecting a long dead ancestor using thirteen human sacrifices. The boys he’d taken were traumatized but alive and home.

Exhausted, Grey was leaning in a quiet stairwell in the station house, nursing his third cup of coffee when Fraser appeared, looking disheveled but still remarkably handsome. It surprised Grey how easy he now found that to admit. It had required a love potion and a near-death experience to get him there, but at last, he was there. Grey took another sip of his coffee then offered Fraser a soft smile.

Fraser leaned against the wall opposite Grey, scratching at the edge of an adhesive bandage on his throat. He flashed the briefest of smug smiles, but there wasn’t any malice in it. “So,” he began, shoving a hand into one pocket of his spare jacket. It was rumpled from being left in his locker for days, but at least it didn’t have someone else’s blood on it. “I ken what I put in _my_ report. And I ken what ye put in _yer_ report. Do ye still think I’m unhinged?” 

“Yes, but for other reasons,” Grey teased, then grew more serious. “I spoke with Tom Byrd. The potion we found had belonged to him. It seems that he and Fergus were the only ones who didn’t end up taking it. That’s likely how Tom managed to get away.”

Jamie nodded. “Sounds like the connection wi’ the potion was just to create easier targets of opportunity, then. Makes sense. So Byrd and the Murray kid… they’re an item, ye gather?”

“Yes,” Grey replied quietly. “And they seem better for it.”

“Good.” Jamie withdrew a paper-wrapped parcel from his pocket, the word _turkey_ scribbled on it, and offered it to Grey. “Here. Ye havenae eaten in nearly two days and yer hands have been shaking since we got back to the station.”

“You and your sandwiches,” Grey said, then let out a small laugh as he took the package. He examined it for a moment before accepting that Fraser was right. He was damn hungry. He tore into the packaging and took a bite. Grey swallowed then said, “You didn’t lace this with another love potion, did you?” 

"Ah." Fraser looked away, tapping the fingers of his right hand against his thigh. "I'm… Grey, I'm sorry about that. I shouldna goaded ye like that. I didna think that… Weel, I didna think."

Grey’s stomach tightened, and he shifted uncomfortably. Did Fraser regret it? And if he did, was the regret about Grey himself or that Grey was a man? “It was my choice. I didn’t believe it would work, but… still, I don’t actually blame you and I don’t… I don’t regret it. If you do, I understand that. I will never say anything and we never have to mention it again.” 

A slow smile spread across Fraser's face, bright and genuine. He glanced back at the stairwell door, but it stayed closed. "Nay, John. I dinna regret it. I did. I regretted pushing ye into something ye dinna want. But so long as ye are not upset about it… I'm rather pleased wi' the outcome."

“What was it your Madame Ruth said?” Grey stepped closer to Jamie, feeling a warm flip in his chest. _What’s wrong with me?_ It had been so long since he’d allowed himself to feel more than a passing attraction. “It only reveals what’s already there.” Grey hesitated, then made up his mind. He set his coffee down on the ground and stood back up, taking a deep breath. He pulled his shoulders back, then laid a hand on Fraser’s arm just above his wrist. “Would you… perhaps you’d like to get dinner with me sometime?” 

"Aye," Fraser said, a little hoarsely. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Aye. I'd like that."

Grey looked down at his shoes, then back up at Fraser, a warmth in his cheeks. “I reckon I should also thank you for saving my life.” His heart hammered as he closed the distance between them, pressing his lips to Fraser’s. He was unaffected by any outside force this time and yet, still, he felt something in that kiss for which there was only one word— _magic._


End file.
